


Word of Mouth (Cinderella Sunshine)

by garnettrees



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alien Culture, BAMF Women, Baby Groot, Bedtime Stories, Cultural Differences, Doctor Who References, Drax's family, Ego's terrible parenting, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fluid Sexuality, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Girl Power, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Drinking, Languages and Linguistics, Peter Quill Feels, Sibling Rivalry, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Women Being Awesome, plenty of weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10979532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnettrees/pseuds/garnettrees
Summary: Storytelling is actually not an unknown pastime on the Milano. When safe (read, disreputable) ports are few and far between and tuning into mainstream channels only helps the law keep a tail on you, you take your entertainment where you can get it.Or, 'Peter Quill's Adventures in Cross-Cultural Myth-Making'. It takes a village, after all.





	Word of Mouth (Cinderella Sunshine)

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out, I _can_ still write one-shots… just apparently not for X-Men. Or maybe it has to do with the seasons, some sort of cicada-esque cycle. I'm not sure. -_-' It's been a while since I've set out to write something light-hearted/humorous, but we'll see how it goes. Comments, kudos, questions about my sanity, and/or bizarre unmarked drinks gratefully accepted and encouraged. I'd love to know what you think!
> 
> Dedicated to my grandfather, A.T. Holt Jr (1932-2016)-- a man of more aphorisms than you could shake a stick at. And so much more. <3
> 
>  **Warnings/Triggers:** Possible Vol 2 spoilers, Ego's terrible parenting; tons of analogies, sayings and other colloquialisms from the Midwest/Appalachians; Rocket's potty mouth; Peter/Gamora if you stand on one foot and squint.

Though few would credit it, the simple truth of the matter is that Peter Quill's confusing and often unfathomable Terran references are not always intentional. Granted, his brain-- and consequently his completely unfiltered mouth-- _is_ a swirling morass of bluster, random consideration (the astronaut versus caveman debate rages on, for example), base survival, and a preoccupation with the childhood pop culture of his home world that fluctuates somewhere between obsession and nostalgia. Openly and freely admitted-- except that last part. Nostalgia is for little blue-haired ladies with tea cozies (whatever _those_ are) and old men who hang out at the general store and want to tell you about how, in their day, they walked everywhere uphill both ways. (He should tell that one to Drax-- it'll be good for at least an hour's concentrated frowning.)

Point is, he's not living in the past. He's hip to the cutting edge of Galactic culture. He knows who HoloLog has deemed Most Attractive Being of the Cycle (Mizziham of Zupits-- a race with six genders, whose breath-taking representative is so foxy Peter doesn't actually care which one of them xir is) and the chart-topping song on every interplanetary beam. He doesn't _like_ 'Each Tip of Your Svelte Tentacles', but the hook is catchy enough, and he can see why its playing in practically every dive from here to Knowhere. Besides, not everyone can have the supreme refinement to recognize the pinnacle of musical achievement that is 'The Pina Colada Song'. He follows the zero-grav gladiator scores, and has conceived the same violent hatred of the Clomb Crusaders as everyone else in the galaxy who isn't actually from Clomb. 

There are some things, however, that just make more sense in Terran terms. It probably sounds specist, but its really just how his brain is wired. Beings of all types tend to stick with what they know. And, despite the veritable cornucopia of races in just this quadrant of the galactic cluster, Peter still finds humanity is one of those which relies most heavily on simile and metaphor (thank you, Ms. Herberger's fifth grade language arts). Everyone agrees on this-- at least those familiar with the species and its few extra-solar offshoots. Actually, they say, 'humans are _weird_ ' with the sort of knowing look that implies certain variants of madness simply have to be lived with, but it's six of one and half a dozen of the other. There he goes again!

His Gramps was a great one for sayings; never met a barnyard analogy he didn't like. Peter's mom absorbed a significant amount of this 'folksy' wisdom, and passed it right on down. 'More nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs', 'sing by the window and I'll help you out', 'running around like a chicken with its head cut off' and, Peter's personal favorite: 'crazier than a shit-house rat'. That last one was a double-hitter, confusing Drax ('excrement is an unsound construction material, far better utilized for the health of crops') _and_ offending Rocket ('Not. A Fuckin'. RAT. Starballs!') without intentional effort on Quill's part. Sometimes things just… slip out, a chronic problem he has no matter what planet he's on. 'That mouth gonna get you kilt, boy,' Gramps was wont to say, which is only a cleaner version of what Yondu spent Peter's entire adolescence screaming at the top of his lungs. Even his mom said as much, though it was usually more of a bemused and occasionally frustrated, 'I just hope you'll always be able to talk yourself out of trouble as fast as you're able to talk yourself in.' Mostly she said it with a smile, even when she was trying to be cross with him because the Principal called. (Surprise, surprise, Peter made more than one walk of shame down to the office in his day.) He had, Mom said, the 'gift of gab'-- something she credited to his father. Say what you like about the douchebag-- don't get Peter started, he has six languages at his disposal and even more issues than he did just a few months ago-- but Ego _talked_ a good game. He could have sold ketchup to a man with white gloves. 

 

This time, its a really rather unoriginal comment about Cinderella that has him staring down the business end of some sort of bastard electric scimitar, with a pissed-off Nebula at the hilt. Granted, she looks no more or less absorbed in fanatical berserker rage than on any other occasion. A constant slow simmer of the completely homicidal, is the blue babe. She's hitching a ride on the _Milano_ courtesy of Gamora's good graces (thus implying there _is_ such a thing, and Peter still pretends to have his doubts), grumbling about being asked to tidy the tiny space that serves as their aptly named mess hall. It's a duty the crew rotates; she is on the ship, therefore crew, case frickn' closed. The place is a cluster of food storage, tools, knives, random articles of clothing (guilty as charged), explosives (_Rocket_) and tiny leaves that would send any Health Inspector screaming for cover. She could just shift a few things around, call it 'clean', and no one would argue with her. Instead, she's now convinced he's cast some profound aspersion on her prowess as a warrior, and is demanding combat to redress the slight to her honor. Anyone claiming honor after having willingly worked for Thanos and Ronan is a confusing philosophical stance, but Quill's too busy avoiding a very indiscriminate shave to quibble at the moment. 

"Whoa, _not_ an insult," he says, hands up, squeezing the technicality from a throat rather constricted and hot beneath the faint pressure of the blade. Is his flesh cooking? He's been living off the Guardian's dubious culinary talents for far too long, the smell is making him hungry. "Just a comparison! A metaphor!"

"Metaphors," Drax remarks from the corner in which he is lovingly cleaning his knives, "are irksome things. A warrior's speech should be forthright, his intentions of annihilation communicated to his enemies in the clearest possible terms so as to magnify their fear. How do humans issue appropriate vows of vengeance if they are incapable of directly saying what they mean?" His eyes, pale and blue as his muscular form, flicker upwards only briefly, unperturbed by the peril of his leader. That's loyalty for you. 

"I always say what I mean!" Peter protests after taking a moment to parse through that treatise. "I just don't always mean to say it out loud!"

"A comparison to _what_?" Nebula asks dangerously, teeth appallingly white in her own cobalt mouth. "What foul beast is this 'Cinderella'? You have no fondness for me, and I less still for you."

_'A bilgesnipe in a party dress,'_ Quill thinks but does not say. He's crazy, but he isn't stupid. Well, _that_ stupid. "Just an Earth story, okay? Geeze, why so touchy?"

"Constant exposure to your incessant nonsense has damaged my patience," she informs him, having no appreciation for the irony. Never the less, her grip lessens fractionally. She's likely aware of Gamora's presence in the threshold behind her long before Quill catches sight of the Zen-Whoberis. 

 

"Yeah, 'cause you have soooo much of that to begin with," Rocket taunts, two steps behind Gamora and spoiling for a fight. Groot trots cheerfully in behind him. Looks like everyone has come to check out the fuss, and why not? Dinner _and_ a show. 

"Don't kill him over a slight like that," Gamora says, about as unconcerned as Drax and far more focused on fishing a Denebran ale out of their spit-and-duct-tape 'fridge. Peter's perfectly happy to remain ignorant about what Rocket used for coolant as long as the food doesn't glow. "Only wait a few minutes and he'll perpetrate something worthy of being slain over." The assassin opens two bottles with a bare-handed flick even Drax can't manage. Sprawling elegantly on the on the nearest bench, another deft motion spreads the fold of her long black coat to display an impressive array of concealed weapons. There are days she really _is_ the most perfect woman in the galaxy. Peter gives her a winning 'see how well I'm getting along with your sister?' smile which, of course, fails to impress.

"In that case," Nebula growls, "why bother to wait at all?"

Gamora only frowns-- not at the tableau, but rather the weapon at its center . "Are you still using 380 diamagnetic batteries on that thing?"

"I haven't exactly been in a position to upgrade," says the smurf version of the bionic woman repressively. She does, however, thumb the hilt button and hand it over when one of those verdant hands motions for it. Quill has quite the fascination with Gamora's hands, which look like a cross between the claws of a predatory feline and those of the divas whose manicures his mother occasionally did for extra cash. It's a thing, which he is definitely not dreamily smiling about at present. 

The Luphomoid's ebony gaze becomes all the more suspicious and challenging, and would definitely not be improved by blurting out 'Oh, don't think I'm attracted to _you_'. He enjoys a great swell of pride at his own impressive restraint. "He will explain himself."

Gamora shrugs her shoulders, lifting a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at Quill. She loves doing this to him; she thinks he invents the majority of his stories as he goes along. Each opportunity to call him out is also a chance to finally catch him flatfooted. Rocket believes the Terran makes _all_ of it up, and that Peter's mind is such an unfathomable mine of complete bullshit that his corpse will still be vomiting up nonsense three days after he's dead.

"I am Groot!" And Groot just likes bedtime stories. Or pot-time stories-- it's a lot more innocent than it sounds.

"Quill's stories suck," Rocket opines for the millionth time even as he climbs atop a nearby crate.

"The lady wants to broaden her worldview." And yes, Peter is smirking when he says that. Sometimes he genuinely despairs over the long-term survival of anything Terran. It's not as if his homeworld has made any progress towards interstellar travel and, from what little he's heard, they're making a fine mess of the planet even without his help. 

"The 'lady' wishes to gut you and peel the fatty tissue from your pathetic pink flesh." Adding insult to injury, Nebula swipes the other open ale. For all they're not genetically related, the assassin sisters have eerie similarities in posture and body language. Once she too has seated herself in an acrobatic position that would make other bipeds flinch, she gestures regally at him with her truncated android's hand. "Speak, and be brief."

"Whatever, your worship." He takes his time looking for another ale. They're out, and he's stuck with watered-down NovaNuke, which never quite lives up to its name. 

 

If he's lyin', he's dyin', but storytelling is not an unknown pastime on the _Milano_. When safe (read, disreputable) ports are few and far between and tuning into commercial isotropic beacons only helps the law keep a tail on you, you take your entertainment where you can get it. A body can only listen to so many arguments over scoring on Blockade Twist or Shoot The Stars-- and subsequent threats from anyone not participating in the game-- before something has to give. Consequently, Quill knows the story behind all twenty-two of Rocket's previous prison-breaks, and is able to recite seven through twelve from memory. He's heard the trials of the Zen-Whoberian fire goddess and the tale of the Hunt By Night Clan from a Gamora inebriated enough to relate such things, and more alarmingly livestock-centric folktales from Drax than he frankly cares to remember. The big guy's people also seem to have a preoccupation with swallowing the eyeballs of their enemies but, to be fair, Drax's critique that too many Earth stories involve robots is somewhat well-founded. The ones Peter tends to tell, anyway.

"Most tales of true merit cannot be told briefly," everyone's favorite thesaurus points out. He's taken up his high-density iridium whetstone again, beginning over the cycle of sharpening blades already keen enough to slice on a subatomic level. Let Nebula snort derisively; "The Ballad of Omhix Mountain-Crusher" is seventy two verses long, and it took considerable convincing for Drax to leave off the other thirty seven for the next holiday. Which still didn't get them out of a graphic description of Our Hero's sexual reunion with his wife and co-husband.  
The universe is _so_ much kinkier than Earth could ever handle. 

"Right." Peter takes a swig of his drink, "So…"

 

"A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…" Gamora recites faithfully, just as solemn as when she herself opens with 'from the ground beneath my feet to the far horizon, my story is known to be true'. There are any number of planets on which story telling is a grave and sometimes deadly matter. Unsurprisingly, Zen-Whoberis was one of them.

Saluting her with his bottle, Quill picks up: "There lived a wealthy merchant whose one treasure in life was his daughter, Ella. Since his wife had died years before, the two were very close, though the merchant sometimes traveled and had to leave Ella in the care of his loyal servants." Damn if he isn't feeling supremely eloquent just at the moment. "Ella was beautiful, sweet-tempered--" he shoots a look at Gamora "-- and really good at math," he adds conscientiously. After all, the term 'girl power' was in use right around the time he left Earth. More importantly, he was raised by a single mother who worked two or more jobs to get by, and he gets that girls are more than the limited role of 'pretty princess' often allows. (Unless you're Leia-- Princess Leia kicked _ass_.) To say nothing of the fact any number of women have tried to seriously maim and/or murder him personally, two of whom are at this table. 

"She tanned hides more skillfully than any of her age-mates," Drax says, almost without intonation. Peter lets this one be, recognizing from the barely perceptible shift in the Destroyer's shoulders that his friend might be working himself into a Moment. Those powerful arms never once pause in their labor, nor is the big man's voice infected with emotion, but Quill's still already having second thoughts about the story's soon-to-be-orphaned heroine. Drax isn't always touchy about daughters-- the wailing magistrates's spawn they were paid to rescue evoked no such response-- but when he is, things can get dicey.

"Nice people are boring." This from Rocket, who may have less self-preservation than Peter.

"I am Groot!"

"Well, that's different."

" _Anyway_ ," the human says, raising a hand in an attempt to forestall more growling from Nebula. She sounds alarmingly like a garbage disposal when she does that. "So Ella and her father were happy, if sometimes a little lonely, until Dad decided to remarry. He was lonely, like I said, and he thought it might be good psychologically for Ella to have a woman in her life."

A collective snort from the audience; none of them have much patience for psychology, of the Terran variety or otherwise.

"He ended up marrying a wealthy widow-- that means her previous mate died, Drax-- with two daughters of her own. She became Ella's stepmother. 

 

No sooner has he congratulated himself on the dodging the widow question and refraining from humming the 'Brady Bunch' theme, then Gamora questioningly echoes, "'Step' mother?"

"You know," Quill waves vaguely, "being married to the father meant she was acting as her mom, though they're not really related? They're a 'step' apart-- separated, like."

"Then the two other girls would be her 'stepsisters'," Nebula says in a voice drier than the ruins of Morag. She and Gamora look everywhere but at one another.

"Like the venomous lack of kinship between you two!" Drax exclaims triumphantly, pointing and utterly failing to wither under two murderous female gazes.

" _Moving right along_ ," Peter interrupts, with rather more volume than is necessary. Helping a struggling Groot up onto the seat beside him, he considers how increasingly unwise telling this story seems. "Obviously, none of these ladies-- Ella, her new stepsisters, or her stepmother-- were quite ready to deal with one another. To make matters worse, Ella's father soon died, leaving--"

"How?" 

"Wha?" is his wonderfully smooth response to Nebula's demand.

"How did Ella's father die?" she grits out.

Frantically groping through foggy memories of Disney animation, Quill still comes up blank. "I don't know, it doesn't really matter--"

"Of course it matters!" Turns out, Gamora's disgusted look is a mirror of Nebula's, now that he can properly see them side-by-side. "That was her _father_." The hiss, however, is one hundred percent Gamora, along with the fire in her agate eyes. Drax is shooting him a glare of daggers and, given the warrior's difficulty with metaphors, Peter can't trust real ones won't soon follow. "Her real father," she reiterates and, while Quill doesn't visibly flinch, he sees the little twitch in that green lower jaw-- her tell that she's seen _his_ tell. Peter's going to stick with Yondu's definition of 'father' versus 'daddy', though even thinking the name of his mentor cum rescuing kidnapper is still hard. His eyes don't prickle at all, any more than there's a single regretful chink in Gamora's poise.  
It's just the damn NovaNuke-- it really is that bad.

"You are pathetic, the lot of you," Nebula declares.

 

Her lofty tone pushes _so many_ of Peter's buttons simultaneously, but it's Rocket who sing-songs, "I know you are, but what am I?" The human can't hide his triumphant grin-- definitely out there amongst the stars, sharing Earth's greatest treasures. Unfortunately, their resident mechanic is also engaged in one of his most anxiety-producing hobbies: 'open the nearest panel and tinker with the wiring because its on hand'. Not quite as nerve-wracking as 'where'd I put those spent fission rods', but still pretty high up there. 

"The dad died in an explosion, okay?" the not-raccoon continues. When the surprised blinking of his companions becomes excessive, he adds, "I just want Star-Munch to finish his story so I can get some damn sleep. Seventy two hours on a job and _this_ is what we do with our down-time." By which he means he wants Groot to get a finished story so _he'll_ go to sleep.

"I am Groot," says the tiny _Flora Colossus_ , now practically in Peter's lap.

His partner shrugs. "Not really."

"Died in an explosion, right," Quill jumps in, rather deftly by his own reckoning. And, because the story has to make some kind of sense in his brain, "While he was traveling. Which left Ella all alone with her stepsisters and stepmother who, it turns out, only married Ella's father for the money. The stepmother never had much patience for Ella _before_ she became a two-time widow but, with the father gone, she saw to it the girl's life was miserable. She banished her to the chilly cellar and-- because she was _really_ cheap-- dismissed the loyal servants. She had Ella there to do all the washing, cooking, cleaning, and otherwise earn her keep. The chores piled on day and night and, when Ella did have time to sleep, she had to curl up in the cinders of the fireplace to keep from freezing."

"Unconscionable treatment of a child," murmurs the killer who only recently fed a victim its own _toes_. The being in question-- some vividly mottled avian species Quill was unfamiliar with-- had sixteen toes all together and the torture, while providing an abundance of intel, was lengthy and memorable. So much so that the human isn't quite up to facing any bite-sized meaty morsels on his menu just yet. 

 

Narrowly avoiding a put-upon sigh, Peter waits to see if anyone else is going to throw in. Only the distant, pervasive hum of the _Milano_ 's engines stirs the air, and all save Rocket gaze on him with expectance but no actual impatience. Groot's tiny umber eyes are wide and trusting, like he just knows Peter will bring things out all right in the end. 

He coughs. "So Ella was often so covered in soot from the fireplace that her stepsisters started calling her 'Cinderella'. And they were just as mean as the Stepmother; throwing scraps of food away just so Ella couldn't have them, and going behind her making messes just so she'd have to start cleaning all over again. They--"

"Perhaps they disliked her success in combat when _their_ target practice was, in fact, more accurate," Nebula mutters. Her black, pupil-less eyes are averted, words sounding almost extracted from her unwillingly.

Gamora, of course, rises to the challenge. "Perhaps they relied too much on formulaic maneuvers, and Cinderella's more innovative strategy granted her legitimate victory."

"So Cinderella's sloppy martial stances were 'innovative'?" the cyborg asks, making as though to snatch back the inactive weapon from her sister's lap. "Since when is failure to absorb finer points of warrior discipline 'innovative'?"

"Well," one of those deft hands holds the scimitar well out of reach, "reliance on faulty equipment doesn't help either." 

Nebula is now actually leaning over the table in an olympic display of flexibility, every tooth in her head bared in a snarl. Some of the molybdenum panels welded to her body really should preclude being able to bend that way. "It is a poor soldier who blames her tools!"

"I'm going to fix it for you."

"It doesn't need to be fixed!"

Bleakly, Peter realizes that, while a femme fatale chick-fight has its merits, he'd really much rather be in distant, comfy stadium seating for that action.

"SHUT UP!" Rocket howls in an almost religious paroxysm of fury. Furry fury, which includes the hurling of several objects Quill really hopes weren't attached to the ship. A lot of it must be bluster, though, because the projectiles don't actually hit anything and Rocket has _killer_ aim. "SHUT UP and let the FREAKIN' DOUCHEBAG tell his FREAKIN' DOUCHEBAG story before we're here all night!" 

"I am Groot," Groot chirps gratefully, sending Rocket an adoring look. All this inspires is a muttered 'idjit', but it's said affectionately enough.

 

"Right," Star Lord says, taking a moment to be captainly, even if his crew rarely bothers to acknowledge it. He holds up peaceable hands, all for standing between two gorgeous women as long as they don't tear each other (and his own handsome self) apart. "Obviously, there are a lot of issues between-- Cinderella and her stepsisters." He says that last part quickly, turning on a smile whose charm-wattage has melted many a stern priestess and affronted dignitary alike. No dice here, of course, but that's how his luck runs. Vaguely, he wonders when this became a therapy session, and spares no small amount of concern for whether or not he'll live to see the music-swelling, tooth-rotting, dancing-animal ending of this tale. Between Rocket and Drax, he's not even going to _touch_ the talking mice. Which is a shame-- his mom loved Gus-Gus. 

Drax, adhering to Rocket's moratorium, encourages Quill with a silence 'go on' gesture of his hand.

"The situation continued for years, and Cinderella just tried to make it through each day without thinking of the future. Things might have gone on like that forever, if not for the fact the ruler of the land had a son who was about to come of age."

Nods of understanding all around. Coming of age ceremonies are a pretty wide-spread concept-- whatever the 'age' of that particular species might be-- and this isn't exactly the most original part of the story. Though it should be noted that all of this now involves a hide-tanning, knife-wielding, math whiz Cinderella.

"It's no surprise the King decided to throw a birthday celebration for his son, inviting all the maidens-- _unmarried people_ ," he says, anticipating the question behind Drax's frown, "regardless of caste. The stepsisters were thrilled, and the stepmother began hatching all sorts of schemes regarding a valuable alliance with royalty. But it was Cinderella who wanted to go most of all. She even secretly started putting together her own clothes but, on the very evening they were getting ready to depart, the sisters spotted the dress and tore it to shreds."

"I am Groot," pipes a pitying _Flora Colossus_ , though Nebula nods approvingly at this sabotage. 

"In tears, Cinderella ran out into the garden and--" And this is an example of Peter's occasionally poor planning skills. Is he _really_ going to tackle the conceptual monstrosity that 'fairy godmother' is going to turn into? There are other versions of the story, he knows, but Peter was never a 'fairy-tale' kind of kid. He's lucky he remembers this version, having seen it when he was young enough that the severe deficit of cars, guns, and robots wasn't an issue. 

 

Suddenly, it seems this story has teeth-- sharp edges, in a way it didn't back then. Nebula and Rocket are right, it _is_ a stupid story. It is more stupid still for it conjure up images of the runners he himself has pulled. Starting with that frantic retreat over the wet night grass while Mom's labored breathing still roared in his ears, so loud it went unrivaled even by the blinding light and whir of engines which found him on the hill. And dammit, he's always known the universe is just as full of piss and vinegar as it is of surprises, but it strikes him afresh just how unfair it is that Mom's 'angel' turned out to be a cosmic blowhard who really just saw her as a means… a means to reproduce. Fucker. He doesn't know if he should believe any of the crap Ego shoveled about the temptation to stay on Earth but, while Peter himself is no expert on softer emotions, he definitely knows that love means never giving the other person a brain tumor.

He's also positive he's not drunk enough for this. Fishing around in the cooler, he pulls out a flask of neon red liquor, the label of which he doesn't bother to read. Anything that ghastly a color is always potent. So armed, and having decided he deserves a slice of therapy as much as anyone else on this ship, he clears his throat to continue.

"She was pretty much ready to give up. It seemed nothing would ever charge-- or that it would only ever change for the worse. In that moment of despair, a spirit appeared to her. The spirit of her mom." He's going through with this, but he's not glancing anywhere in Gamora's vicinity while he does. "Looking just as happy and healthy as Ella had ever seen her. And, because we know our ancestors have great powers--" he knows no such thing, but it's a frequent feature of Drax's and Gamora's stories, so he's certain it will fly, "-- the spirit was able to magically gift Cinderella with a dress for the ball."  
He flinches as soon as the last word leaves his mouth. And he'd been so careful, too!

"Why would a spherical projectile need clothing?" Drax asks, while Rocket wipes a paw over his own whiskered face in disgust. Quill makes the executive decision to cut out the transforming animals drafted as footmen, too. 

"A ball is just another word for party, big guy," Peter explains. "You know-- the Prince's celebration. A rousing good time."

The light dawning in those pale blue eyes would be a lot more comforting if it were not followed by: "Ahh, the commemoration of a warrior's first true blood-letting, where they may copulate vigorously with all amiable parties before choosing a life-mate."

"… Sure." Why not? They've left Disney so far behind now they're not even in the same star-cluster. Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors, Cinderella is all kitted out to go to the orgy! "There was even a fancy phantom spaceship to take her to the palace. But the most important thing," he wags a finger at Groot, "is the shoes. Mom's ghost gave Cinderella a pair of amazing glass slippers."

"Impractical." Nebula again, while she pushes away her empty ale and begins hunting for something else. Sourly, Quill considers starting a tab for her. "Surely later she must slay any who challenge her claim on the prince. Glass shoes would be far too delicate to endure regular wear, much less the strain of combat."

"No problem with Mom's ghost or the phantom spaceship, but you're going to quibble over the _shoes_? They're _magic_ shoes, okay? Freak'n awesome, great tread, kick-ass diamond shoes." He knocks back more of the new drink, which produces a burning sensation followed by almost intolerable sweetness, feeling it begin to hit his bloodstream. He's ready to get this over with so he can lie on his bunk with Yondu's parting gift and listen to any of his Mom's songs that isn't 'Brandy'. "Away she goes, but there's a catch. Her mom warned her several times-- she has to be out of there before midnight, because the magic can't last forever."

 

"Everything at the ball was great; people stared in awe when Cinderella entered, and it was pretty obvious she was the most amazing person in the room. And the Prince, you know," Peter gestures expansively. "He was also a really awesome guy. Handsome, funny, totally fearless, _spectacular_ dance moves…"

"The Prince is Kevin Bacon!" Gamora and Drax exclaim in simultaneous triumph. 

_'Oh, I'm sorry,'_ Quill thinks, internally using his best gameshow host voice, _'The correct answer is "Like you, Star Lord".'_ But of course not, he muses while Gamora informs a carefully disinterested Nebula that this is a great Earth hero and 'pelvic sorcerer', it's gotta be Kevin Bacon. People tend to fall back on what they know. For the first time, he questions how Gamora, Drax, and even Groot, might picture his wacky tales from Earth. He doubts Rocket cares enough to visualize the narrative, but you can't rule it out-- sometimes the mind imagines things of its own accord. Nebula is at least somewhat engaged in the story now, as well. He didn't describe Cinderella: a) he's no poet, and b) he's been around the galaxy enough to know that Earth's 'requirements' for beauty aren't all they're cracked up to be. Is this heroine then a well-muscled huntress, pale blue skin marbled with crimson tattoos, whose face is that of Drax's lost daughter? Could she be a statuesque redhead with deadly green hands, or a black-eyed vixen with body unscarred by cybernetic implants? Is she-- or xir, in this case-- a strong, proud, and ambulatory tree? A look around the common room is all he needs to remind him that he himself is not quite Terran anymore. Which is okay. He sees the foreign in the familiar, the well-known and well-loved in the exotic. These are not sober thoughts, but they are not particularly inebriated enough either. Peter is not a morose drunk, but he does get to be a philosophical one past a certain point-- which might be worse. 

"Kevin Bacon," he says, proudly not slurring. "Who was having a great time. Everyone was. People were dancing-- or not dancing," Quill nods at Drax, "which is cool, too. Cinderella almost forgot about the warning, things were that groovy. At the last minute, she remembered her mother's warning and knew she had to run. She made it back to her spaceship as it was beginning to flicker into nothing. Whoosh!" He's drunk enough to 'whoosh' now, a sound effect his teammates are familiar with from other alcohol induced debacles. "The only thing left behind was the slipper she lost in her hurry. Before she knew it, she was right back where she started. The magic had vanished, and the stepsisters were home to brag about what a wonderful time they had without her. It seemed as if the whole thing never happened at all. But the prince-- Kevin Bacon-- couldn't forget her that easily."

Drax smiles-- faint, distant. "Her violent prowess bewitched him."

 

"Yeah. He was out the very next morning, on the hunt for every wom-- _person_ of viable age he could find to try on the shoe. He knew it was the only thing that would lead him to his mystery date."

There's a predictable snort from Nebula. "Surely she wasn't the only being of that shoe-size on the entire planet?" Quill sighs gustily, but he has no backup. Rocket has apparently given up on playing story-telling referee, instead helping himself to an entire seven-pack of _jula jula_ juice. He'll drink it all if someone doesn't stop him, and top it off with a trip to the engine room. 

"Magic. Shoe," the story-teller enunciates carefully. "It only fits Cinderella." Undeterred by Nebula's look of disbelief, he continues, "The stepsisters had _not_ been happy about the stranger who had taken up Kevin Bacon's time, and failed to include her in all the stories they told about their 'magical night'. On top of that, Stepmother suspected some sort of trick, but couldn't quite figure out how to blame it on Cinderella. When the prince finally made it out to their mansion, _everyone_ in the kingdom was gossiping about the shoe. The stepsisters were desperate, and their mother had come up with a plan. She cut off her own daughters' toes to help make the shoe fit, and she locked Cinderella in the cellar just to be on the safe side."

Drax, and even Rocket, nod enthusiastically at the gore, but the _Milano_ 's own assassin sisters merely look thoughtful.

"But the shoe wouldn't fit," Gamora murmurs.

"Nope. And Cinderella had spent way too long in that cellar. She knew all its secrets, and _nothing_ was going to stand in her way now." Peter punctuates this were a rather embarrassing fist pump. "Just as Kevin Bacon was about to leave in disappointment (and, frankly, a little nausea), Cinderella managed to escape and meet him right at the front gate. She stood in front of him just as she was, and he knew. The shoe was only further proof. And _that_ , my friends, is how Cinderella the huntress mathematician became Kevin Bacon's queen. They ruled with liberty, justice, and righteous dance music for the rest of their days. The end, amen!" 

 

The alcohol has given him a warm glow, right down to his heart (or maybe that's heartburn from the NovaNuke) but, before he can savor even a moment of accomplishment, Gamora asks, "What happened to the Stepmother?"

"Disemboweled," Drax supplies, as though remarking on the weather. Not surprising-- the guy is _all_ about retribution. "Slowly, in the public lodge, where watching children might suck on ijyaa fruit and throw the rinds upon her writhing form." That deserves a salute of thanks and a deep swig of the liquid currently making Peter extremely lightheaded. 

"And the stepsisters?" It's a dangerously casual question from Nebula.

Quill's brain is moving a little slowly just now, getting ready for the end of your broadcast day, but he still recognizes the blaring of his internal 'red alert'. And here he'd thought he'd made it through this tale alive. "M'Sure… M'sure, once their feet healed, they had much better lives without the stepmother's bad influence." He refrains from driving the point home with a 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge, don't kill us while we sleep, Nebula'. 

 

The silence that follows is far more companionable than awkward, but it is still a mixture of both. Quill stares into the dregs of his cherry-red liquor, the vivid shade almost as headache-inducing as what he's already imbibed. Rocket is already on his third _jula jula_ , doing that thing where he knocks each of the empty cans into the atomizer chute with distressingly accurate flicks of his tail. 

"You know," Gamora says gently, hefting the scimitar to illustrate, "I don't think the 380's are causing that much damage in the short-term."

"I _told_ you--"

"I still think something more compact would give it better balance." In no shape to disguise it, Peter's gaze follows Gamora she makes her way around the table. The fall of her long shell-leather coat draws the eye predictably further. Catching him out, she only shakes her head at him, smile tolerant and not without affection. One slim finger reaches over to press against his forehead, and he follows its suggested backward motion. The creaking cushions he lands on are a nice counterpoint to the spinning of the room. She plucks the cup from his hand, setting it safely out of the way. "That red stuff can take down beings three times your size."

"Coulda warned me."

"It's not fatal. You learn better through experience anyway." To Nebula she says, "anything less than a 370 with quartz-iridium powder is eventually going to degrade your conductor, though."

"I love a woman who can technobabble," Quill mutters, closing his eyes.

"Good _night_ , Peter."

"If you're looking for powder enhanced mixtures…" Rocket offers, and Peter can hear him abandoning his perch with more grace than body mass to alcohol ratio should allow. "I do have a Corvian 375 battery." After dubious silence, he adds, "Okay, so it's a black-market refurb, but its not like any of us are gonna walk into a Nova Corps distributor and file a warranty claim."

"Prove it," Nebula challenges. "Such things are hard to come by, legitimate or otherwise."

'Rarer than hen's teeth,' is Peter's thought, but he hears it in his grandfather's voice. He actually wishes he'd taken a few more swigs-- storytelling is thirsty work.

 

Someone flicks off the overhead light, and he can catch the fading trail of conversation as the sisters follow Rocket out onto the cargo hold gangway. 

"He'll give you a decent price… _this_ time."

"At no time! At no time-- don't even put that word in the same sentence with 'price'!" Nebula's likely threatening response is lost to distance. When the remaining illumination is eclipsed, it is by a bulk that moves in silence even with an armful of knives. 

"An admirable effort, friend Quill," Drax rumbles. Peter gives him a-- by now, thoroughly explained-- thumbs up. "Your insistence on oblique comparisons continues to puzzle me."

Far too tired to give into what would no doubt be an impressive drunken giggle fit, the human just snorts. "S'okay-- it passed the time, anyway." This earns him one of Drax's friendly (by which he means 'just short of clavicle-crushing') squeezes on the shoulder, before the warrior pads away.

Beside him, Quill senses Groot stretching, leaning comfortably between the cushions and Peter's obliging back. His yawn is so great the little guy actually squeaks afterwards.

"I am Groot," is his sage conclusion.

"Boy," Peter tells him around his own yawn, "You are preachin' to the choir." 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Meredith's Ever-Ridiculous Notes:**  
>  [+] Title from "Cinderella Sunshine" by Paul Revere and the Raiders (1969)  
> [+] Terminology disclaimer(s): 1) I use 'xir' for beings identifying outside the gender binary and-- in one place-- use it for Groot's species. I think Groot himself is used to being called a 'he', assuming he notices at all. He probably just thinks we're dioecious weirdos. ^_~ 2) Peter's definition of stepmother is severely wanting. No offense intended.  
> [+] I realize 'girl power' was only in peripheral usage until about 1991, but I decided to fudge the timeline a little.  
> [+] Quartz powder is actually being researched currently as an additive for lithium-sulphur batteries currently being used in electric cars. It's thought the powder will improve capacity and performance. That is probably the sole factual statement in this story. ^_~ Iridium is one of the rarest elements on Earth, so who the hell knows what it might be capable of?


End file.
